Intuition and Circumstance
by Cognizance
Summary: Four times the Musketeers demonstrated their intuitive understanding of each other, and were glad to do so. (prompt fill)
1. To sleep

A/N: This is another prompt fill, though, as it isn't just an Aramis-centric prompt fill, I'm giving it its own space. I'm also not sure where the original prompt shuffled off to, but what I remember of it from when I marked it down, was that it was a request for a 4 or 5 times fic that shows the boys demonstrating how well they know each other by highlighting their intuition about each other and each others' needs. That's the theme you'll see here, with one chapter for each character. As has also become typical for me, some of the chapters or "times" will be set in the early days of d'Artagnan's experience with the regiment, with him learning about the other three, and showing his growing understanding while becoming a part of them. Apparently, I haven't yet tired of that theme either.

-o-

 **Intuition and Circumstance: To sleep, perchance to dream**

-o-

Aramis caught d'Artagnan's wrist just inches before it came into contact with Porthos' shoulder. When d'Artagnan looked up at him, he held a finger to his lips, shaking his head.

D'Artagnan frowned, glancing over at Athos who stood on the other side of the room. Athos shook his head as well. "Let him sleep," he whispered, trading a brief look with Aramis.

In reply, Aramis tugged d'Artagnan back toward the hallway to the outside door, keeping him silent until they got outside.

"Isn't Treville going to be upset when he doesn't appear?" asked d'Artagnan, once the door was closed and the young sunlight was spilling across his shoulders. "The captain requested the presence of all four of us."

"We'll cover for him," answered Aramis, adjusting the lay of his sword belt and hat. "Besides, the captain will understand."

"Porthos needs the rest," Athos explained, when d'Artagnan's confused eyes shot in his direction.

Aramis nodded, patted d'Artagnan's shoulder in agreement with their leader, then began following Athos toward the direction of the gate.

"Why does Porthos need his rest?" d'Artagnan asked, striding easily to catch up with them.

"By my estimate, he probably didn't get to sleep until about an hour ago," Aramis said, pacing to Athos' shoulder while allowing a gap for d'Artagnan to slot himself between them.

"How could you possibly know that? You just returned from your assignment this morning - hardly even an hour ago and before the sun was even up. You haven't seen Porthos for three days or spoken to anyone else in the regiment. And I couldn't have told you - I've been on assignment in the palace armory for the last four, and I haven't seen him either."

"Ah, the duties of a new recruit," Aramis mused, blinking into the sunlight as it grew brighter.

"Aramis, it's a serious question. How could you possibly know he needs his rest?"

Athos, in his continuing silence, glanced at d'Artagnan, then traded another look with Aramis.

"We just do," said Aramis.

Rolling his eyes, d'Artagnan huffed. "Now, now - much as I respect the three of you and would never denounce you to the church - don't think I haven't noticed your supernatural ability to communicate with each other by saying nothing at all," he snarked, "but the occasional insight into your particular style of witchcraft would not be unappreciated. Particularly if I'm going to continue working with you."

Another traded glance with Athos, and Aramis sighed, slowing to a stop with hands on his hips. "He gets nightmares. Sometimes. Those very rare occasions when Athos and I are sent on assignment without him, well that - occasionally - has brought them on." He grimaced then, turning his body toward the shadows. "It isn't every time we're gone - just, occasionally, as I said."

"And you think he was having nightmares last night?"

"He was probably trying to avoid them," answered Athos with a shrug. "He does that sometimes - lets the worry take over until he can talk himself down. Preferring to pace, or read, or practice swordplay, rather than allow himself to sleep and let the fears play out in his mind."

"Oh." D'Artagnan's eyebrows wrinkled of their own accord and he stared back at the door to Porthos' lodgings. "But, then - wouldn't it be better to wake him up and let him know you're both all right?"

"We could," Athos said sedately, then took d'Artagnan's elbow to get the three of them walking again. "But we won't."

D'Artagnan frowned, unimpressed with the short answer.

Athos seemed disinclined to expound further, but before d'Artagnan could say anything, Aramis picked up the thread. "We've tried that, actually. It seemed to make it worse. We've learned since that when he does finally talk himself out of such a state and into sleep, he'll sleep like the dead until his body doesn't need any more. If we wake him before then, he becomes ... he'll be ... "

"Off-kilter," Athos supplied.

Aramis nodded. "Off-kilter for days," he finished.

"Oh." D'Artagnan pulled at his thoughts, working these new pieces of information into his ever-growing bank of knowledge. "But - how did you know for certain that's what happened?" He gestured at the early-morning light. "I mean, it's not unusual to find someone asleep at this hour, and you said yourself, it only happens sometimes when you're on assignment, not every time, so ... "

"He has a look," shrugged Aramis, matching the gesture to the words.

"A look." D'Artagnan slowed, narrowing his eyes. "He has a look? While sleeping?"

"He does," confirmed Athos.

"Hmm," added Aramis. "A distinct one."

Sighing, d'Artagnan sped his steps to catch up his pace. "He didn't look any different to me."

Aramis clapped a hand to his shoulder, glanced behind them in the direction of Porthos' quarters, then gave d'Artagnan's shoulder another squeeze. "You'll catch on to it. Eventually. Trust me."

"Will I?" d'Artagnan breathed, not meaning the question to actually be heard.

Athos and Aramis exchanged another look, and Athos smiled warmly - what turned out to be a quick and fleeting softening of his features. "I have no doubt," he answered, and graced d'Artagnan's shoulder with his own solid pat.

-o-

A/N: Obvious quote from Hamlet is credited to Shakespeare.


	2. Time and the hour

A/N: Just a reminder that this is set early in d'Artagnan's acquaintance with the Musketeers.

Warning: I generally don't feel to warn, and there is nothing in this chapter that would be considered more violent or triggering than anything on the show, but there is one allusion to a speculatively suicidal event, so if you're likely to be triggered by such a thing, please skip this one.

Warning II: Here be run-on sentences.

-o-

 **Intuition and Circumstance: Time and the hour runs through the roughest days**

-o-

Passing near the base of the stairs teetering up toward Athos' quarters, d'Artagnan slowed, flicking his eyes at the dully-lit window and trying not to imagine the state of the man concealed behind it.

When Porthos' hand landed warmly on his shoulder he realized he had stopped altogether, and swallowed, fully prepared to allow Porthos' hand to steer him onward – away from the distressing source of his concern – as it was inevitably going to.

Instead, the hand held him fast.

Frowning over his shoulder, d'Artagnan caught Porthos' eye, then turned slightly, and saw Aramis on the lower step, already ascending. Looking back at Porthos in surprise, d'Artagnan found the expression there to be nonchalant. Not entirely unconcerned, perhaps, but unexpectedly untroubled by Aramis' pathway. As though Athos' quarters had been their destination from the beginning, and d'Artagnan was simply slow not to have picked up on that.

Tugging d'Artagnan's sleeve, Porthos gave a nod toward Athos' door, as though to indicate that he should follow.

"Shouldn't ... " d'Artagnan started to say, but in the space of a moment, his words dried up and he stopped, glancing up again at the dim window – inexplicably worried that his voice would carry. He was still half-waiting for Porthos or Aramis to remind him that Athos would not appreciate such speculation on his mood, and it was time for them to move along – to leave Athos in peace.

Instead, he was greeted with silence.

With one hand on the banister, Aramis was looking back at him, waiting.

Standing just behind him, Porthos gave his shoulder another encouraging squeeze.

"Shouldn't we leave him be?" d'Artagnan finally finished, bluntly. "It seemed like … I mean ... won't we be disturbing him? It seemed fairly clear that he wanted to be alone."

Quietly, Aramis regarded him, head tipped just slightly to the side. His gaze feeling serious and heavy. Then, he smiled. One of the smiles d'Artagnan remained uncertain about in regard to Aramis. Still new enough in his acquaintance with the man, he was not yet able to tell if the bare humoring edge in it was a trick of his imagination, or some form of fondness.

As it was, neither explanation seemed adequate to match the current expression in Aramis' eyes. There was warmth there – d'Artagnan believed – but also an open cascade of additional thoughts he felt he should be able to decipher. He was thrown by that too – by the times Aramis seemed to conceal absolutely nothing, yet left d'Artagnan unable to grasp a single solid emotion.

He swallowed uncomfortably, wondering if it had really been just yesterday that he'd been thinking to himself that Aramis was the easiest of the three to be around.

"It did seem that way, didn't it?" Aramis eventually answered, breaking the silence and ascending another step.

Behind them, Porthos cleared his throat. "Aramis."

Aramis stopped, then over d'Artagnan's head, reached back and accepted the bottle of wine Porthos was passing up to him. He didn't look at either again after that – simply continued up the stairs, bottle dangling calmly from his fingertips as he reached the landing and jiggled Athos' door open, without preamble and without even knocking.

After an apprehensive second and another prod from Porthos, d'Artagnan warily followed. Reaching the top of the stairs, he hovered on the threshold, where Porthos gave him another nudge, and urged him through.

Once inside, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the firelight. When they did, he found Athos sitting near the hearth in the corner, the air about him as dangerously sharp as d'Artagnan had imagined.

Slumped back with one foot kicked to the low rung of his small table, Athos said nothing as they entered, making no movement to acknowledge their presence save for one dark flick of the eyes and a tap at the bottle of cheap brandy hovering near his palm.

In the process of releasing himself from his belts and baldric, Aramis passed d'Artagnan the wine Porthos had given him – expensive wine, he could see, now that he held it in his fist – then slung his pistol onto the table and took the chair next to Athos' without hesitation, going so far as to rest his his heel on the same slat as Athos' before leaning back in near replication of Athos' pose. Methodically, but casually, he began setting out the pieces he would need to clean his pistol, with no words coming out of his mouth.

Porthos, free of his own doublet, had moved over to Athos' shelves and drawn down what looked to be a clean deck of cards. With a nod at d'Artagnan that looked more like a Sunday afternoon greeting than any sort of useful signal regarding what d'Artagnan was meant to be doing in this situation, he dropped into the chair across from the other two, leaned forward into the meager firelight, and began shuffling the cards out into the bones of reussite.

Athos said nothing.

Eased – precariously – by the demeanor of the other two, d'Artagnan followed their example, sinking cautiously into the last chair left for him, the bottle of wine he'd been charged with cradled firmly in his hands.

Looking again at Athos, he watched as the impassive eyes flickered, catching the occasional flash of gold from the crackling flames. The barbed sharpness about him felt just as intense now as it had been when he'd departed from them earlier.

D'Artagnan could find no better reason for it now, than he had then. In the course of their questioning through le Marais, they'd all been frustrated, trying to find the witnesses that claimed the Marquis de Beaulne had hung his sister, rather than she having done it herself.

Whatever had caused it – whatever demons of Athos' they'd stumbled upon through the course of the day – the pain beneath the anger in Athos' eyes had been unmistakable. Then, as it was now.

D'Artagnan had wanted to …

He wanted to …

Say something.

Ask questions.

Provide reassurance.

Athos shouldn't have to deal with whatever demon this was all by himself.

Opening his mouth in the tiny room, d'Artagnan felt a gathering of words coalesce behind his tongue, but before he could work them out, Aramis tapped his knee, getting his attention.

When he looked over, Aramis shook his head, pressing a brief finger to his lips. Holding d'Artagnan's gaze with softly serious eyes, he took the wine bottle out of d'Artagnan's loose fist, worked it open and dropped back a swallow, then passed it off to Athos who shoved the cheap brandy away and accepted it without a word, bumping his shoulder to Aramis' in the process. As though neither of them were aware of the barbs and sharpness still rife in Athos' demeanor.

After a long and silent swallow, Athos set the wine back to the table and slid it forward into Porthos' grip, who tapped two warm fingers to Athos' wrist before taking his own appreciative sip. Exhaling in a slow sigh, he looked at d'Artagnan, then returned the bottle to d'Artagnan's hands.

Glancing again briefly around at the others, he firmed his fingers over the glass, then tipped it back and took a drink, tasting the sweetness on his tongue and a flavor richer than he expected.

Aramis took the bottle from him; Athos nodded.

And that was all.

They passed the bottle back and forth between the four of them, and didn't speak. Not a word as they drank into the night, shuffling cards and cleaning weapons. Though to d'Artagnan, it felt like there were layers of conversation ambling back and forth between them. Watching through the course of the evening – watching Athos slowly abandon his dangerous intensity, until he'd tilted his chair against the wall with his shoulder slouching further and further into Aramis' – d'Artagnan was certain of it.

Trust and admiration did not automatically lead to an innate cultural understanding of the dynamics between these men he'd joined. But, as Porthos again passed him the bottle in the quiet of the flickering firelight, and Athos met his eyes and gave him a slow nod, he found himself smiling back without effort or trepidation and thought, at the very least, he was starting to figure it out.

-o-

A/N: Section title is taken from 'Macbeth' by Shakespeare.


End file.
